Part 22

Our captain, this perceiving, The signal made for leaving, And with his ship departed, Downcast and broken-hearted; War, death, and consternation, Pursu'd our embarkation; We did our best, but no men Can stand 'gainst hail and foemen.

THE ELDER-WITCH.

According to the Danish tradition, there is a female Elf in the elder tree, which she leaves every midnight; and, having strolled among the fields, returns to it before morning.

Though tall the oak, and firm its stem, Though far abroad its boughs are spread, Though high the poplar lifts its head, I have no song for them. A theme more bright, more bright would be The winsome, winsome elder tree, Beneath whose shade I sit reclin'd;-- It holds a witch within its bark, A lovely witch who haunts the dark, And fills with love my mind.

When ghosts, at midnight, leave their graves, And rous'd is every phantom thing; When mermaids rise and sweetly sing In concert with the waves; When Palnatoka, {f:29} on his steed, Pursues the elves across the mead, Or gallops, gallops o'er the sea, The witch within the elder's bark, The lovely witch who haunts the dark, Comes out, comes out to me.

Of leaves the fairies make our bed; The knight, who moulders 'neath the elm, {f:30} Starts up with spear and rusted helm,-- By him the grace is said; And though her kiss is cold at times, And does not scent of earthly climes, Though glaring is her eye, yet still The witch within the elder's bark, The lovely witch who haunts the dark, I prize, and ever will.

Yet, once I lov'd a mortal maid, And gaz'd, enraptur'd, on her charms, Oft circled in each other's arms, Together, here we stray'd;-- But, soon, she found a fairer youth, And I a fairer maid, forsooth! And one more true, more true to me, The witch within the elder's bark, The lovely witch who haunts the dark, Has been more true to me.

ODE. FROM THE GAELIC.

"Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd."

Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers; Life yet I retain, but not gladness; My heart in my bosom is wither'd, And sorrow sits heavy upon me. For cold, in her grave-hill, is lying The maid whom I gaz'd on, so fondly, Whose teeth were like chalk from the quarry, Whose voice was more sweet than harp music. Like foam that subsides on the water, Just where the wild swan has been playing; Like snow, by the sunny beam melted, My love, thou wert gone on a sudden. Salt tears I let fall in abundance, When memory bringeth before me That eye, like the placid blue heaven; That cheek, like the rose in its glory. Sweet object of warmest affection, Why could not thy beauty protect thee? Why, sparing so many a thistle, Did Death cut so lovely a blossom? Here pine I, forlorn and abandon'd, Where once I was cheerful and merry: No joy shall e'er shine on my visage, Until my last hour's arrival. O, like the top grain on the corn-ear, Or, like the young pine, 'mong the bushes; Or, like the moon, 'mong the stars shining, Wert thou, O my love, amongst women!

BEAR SONG. FROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.

The squirrel that's sporting Amid the green leaves, Full oft, with its rustle, The hunter deceives; Who starts--and believing That booty is nigh, His heart, for a moment, With pleasure beats high.

"Now, courage!" he mutters, And crouching below A thunder-split linden, He waits for his foe: "Ha! joy to the hunter; A monstrous bear E'en now is approaching, And bids me prepare.

"Hark! hark! for the monarch Of forests, ere long, Will breathe out his bellow, Deep-throated and strong:" Thus saying, he gazes Intently around; But, death to his wishes! Can hear not a sound:

Except when, at moments, The wind rising shrill Wafts boughs from the bushes, Across the lone hill. Wo worth, to thee, squirrel, Amid the green leaves, Full oft thy loud rustle The hunter deceives.

NATIONAL SONG. FROM THE DANISH OF EVALD.

King Christian stood beside the mast; Smoke, mixt with flame, Hung o'er his guns, that rattled fast Against the Gothmen, as they pass'd: Then sunk each hostile sail and mast In smoke and flame. "Fly!" said the foe: "fly! all that can, Nor wage, with Denmark's Christian, The dread, unequal game."

Niels Juul look'd out, and loudly cried, "Quick! now's the time:" He hoisted up his banner wide, And fore and aft his foemen plied; And loud above the battle cried, "Quick! now's the time." "Fly!" said the foe, "'t is Fortune's rule, To deck the head of Denmark's Juul With Glory's wreath sublime."

Once, Baltic, when the musket's knell Rang through the sky, Down to thy bosom heroes fell And gasp'd amid the stormy swell; While, from the shore, a piercing yell Rang through the sky! "God aids me," cried our Tordenskiold; "Proud foes, ye are but vainly bold; Strike, strike, to me, or fly!"

Thou Danish path to fame and might, Dark-rolling wave, Receive a friend who holds as light The perils of the stormy fight; Who braves, like thee, the tempest's might; Dark rolling wave, O swiftly bear my bark along, Till, crown'd with conquest, lull'd with song, I reach my bourne--the grave.

THE OLD OAK.

Here have I stood, the pride of the park, In winter with snow on my frozen bark; In spring 'mong the flowers that smiling she spread, And among my own leaves when summer was fled. Three hundred years my top I have rais'd, Three hundred years I have sadly gaz'd O'er Nature's wide extended scene; O'er rushing rivers and meadows green, For though I was always willing to rove, I never could yet my firm foot move.

They fell'd my brother, who stood by my side, And flung out his arms so wide, so wide; How envy I him, for how blest is he, As the keel of a vessel he sails so free Around the whole of the monstrous earth; But I am still in the place of my birth. I once was too haughty by far to complain, But am become feeble through age and pain; And therefore I often give vent to my woes, When through my branches the wild wind blows.

A night like this, so calm and clear, I have not seen for many a year; The milk-white doe and her tender fawn Are skipping about on the moonlight lawn; And there, on the verge of my time-worn root, Two lovers are seated, and both are mute: Her arm encircles his youthful neck, For none are present their love to check. This night would almost my sad heart cheer, Had I one hope or one single fear.

LINES TO SIX-FOOT THREE.

A lad, who twenty tongues can talk And sixty miles a day can walk; Drink at a draught a pint of rum, And then be neither sick nor dumb Can tune a song, and make a verse, And deeds of Northern kings rehearse Who never will forsake his friend, While he his bony fist can bend; And, though averse to brawl and strife Will fight a Dutchman with a knife. O that is just the lad for me, And such is honest six-foot three.

A braver being ne'er had birth Since God first kneaded man from earth: O, I have cause to know him well, As Ferroe's blacken'd rocks can tell. Who was it did, at Suderoe, The deed no other dar'd to do? Who was it, when the Boff {f:31} had burst, And whelm'd me in its womb accurst-- Who was it dash'd amid the wave, With frantic zeal, my life to save? Who was it flung the rope to me? O, who, but honest six-foot three!

Who was it taught my willing tongue, The songs that Braga {f:32} fram'd and sung? Who was it op'd to me the store Of dark unearthly Runic lore, And taught me to beguile my time With Denmark's aged and witching rhyme: To rest in thought in Elvir shades, And hear the song of fairy maids; Or climb the top of Dovrefeld, Where magic knights their muster held? Who was it did all this for me? O, who, but honest six-foot three!